


beneath the curse of my lover’s eyes

by dreamsoverdeath (dheiress)



Series: eyes [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Non-Chronological, Slightly underage content, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/dreamsoverdeath
Summary: Harry couldn’t quite remember how old he was when he first met Tom Riddle. What he could clearly remember, though, was this:He was seven when Tom brought down a part of the school kitchen’s roof on Dudley and his gang.(In a world where their story is much more similar to that of another Dark Lord and a boy who almost made the wrong choice— hmm, I think you could almost guess where this story will end.)





	beneath the curse of my lover’s eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! Ho ho ho have more tomarry/harrymort this season! <3

 

 

( _And while Harry was sure he had never heard of the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he’d had when he was very small, and had half-forgotten._ )

 

* * *

 

 

Harry doesn’t quite remember the exact _when_ but this is _how_ he and the Dursleys met Tom and the Riddles—though maybe met is too strong a word for what happened is _this_ :

 

 

He’s helping his Aunt Petunia weed the garden—a job that will be passed down completely to him in just a couple or so of years—when the sleek black car, closely followed by a moving truck, parks in front of Number 7 Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon and Dudley are both eating ice cream lazily on the porch, wearing matching cotton shirts and shorts such that they look like a father-and-son pair of whales sunning their selves on an abandoned beach.

 

Harry notices the whole thing first. Even years later, he will not know what it is but that day _something_ makes him look up from the stubborn dead weeds he and Aunt Petunia are pulling out from the even more stubborn soil. As he looks up, the boy getting out of the black car turns his head _just so_ —and their eyes meet. Harry freezes in shock, up until now the only boy he has ever come in contact with is Dudley and sometimes some of his cousin’s friends, and even then just barely. But it isn’t a boy with a face of disgust or contempt that Harry sees on that day, rather just a boy with indifferent eyes.

 

Like Harry, his hair is black but that’s where their similarities start and end. Unlike Harry, his inky black curls is shiny and well-combed; his face clean; his clothes new and without a wrinkle. Most of all, he’s not kneeling on the dirt, like Harry, pulling out weeds that does not like to be pulled out.

 

Aunt Petunia thwacks her pink rubber gloves on Harry’s left forearm, thrice in quick succession—onetwothree. Harry can’t help but squawk an indignant “ow!”, his right palm instinctively covering the stricken area. The skin is blushing furiously red when he looks at it.

 

“I asked you a question, what’s—” but Aunt Petunia doesn’t finish the repeat of her question, her eyes finally latching on the affair at Number 7.

 

“Vernon! Vernon, come look! New neighbors!” she hisses instead to her husband as she pushes herself near her white roses, her long neck craning high above her perfectly trimmed bushes. Uncle Vernon seems disgruntled at the interruption of his ice cream consumption but he still goes obediently waddling towards his wife, Dudley trailing curiously at his heels. When Harry turns his gaze back to Number 7, the boy is already halfway inside and now a man and a woman are directing the men from the truck into the house.

 

“That’s a Rolls Royce!” Uncle Vernon exclaims, spittle-flavored ice cream—or maybe ice cream flavored spittle?—spewing out of him. Harry does not know what a Rolls Royce is but there’s a gleam in his Uncle’s eyes that makes him think it’s quite expensive and that Uncle Vernon has been wanting one for a time now.  They see a desktop computer, a bicycle,  a flat screen TV—all sleeker and shinier than the car—among other things unloaded from the truck and Dudley makes a familiar wordless noise. The one that says he sees something that he likes very much and he’ll throw a storm of a tantrum if it is not given to him immediately.

 

“Her eyes are _freaky_ ,” Aunt Petunia says and unlike her husband and son, she is disdainful and not at all covetous in her discovery. Mrs. Number 7 links her arms with Mr. Number 7, who in Harry’s unasked opinion looks like someone not quite sure why he is where he is. They do not turn their gazes at the direction of Number 4 Privet Drive though the Dursleys’ gawking must be painfully obvious. Mrs. Number 7, however, makes sure to close their fancy car door with a loud and rather rude thud.

 

Suffice to say, the initial interaction between Numbers 4 and 7 Privet Drive isn’t something that leaves fond memories in one’s mind. Things don’t certainly became warmer a week later when Uncle Vernon realizes that Mr. Number 7 is a big name in the steel manufacturing industry and Aunt Petunia notices everyone in the neighborhood _just loves_ Mrs. Number 7 despite her ugly appearance.

 

 

(Harry’s head tilts up to glance at the second floor windows of Number 7 and there, on the left side is the boy. He’s staring at Harry, head cocked sideways and a smile on his lips as if there’s a big joke kept secret between the two of them.)

 


End file.
